


Pox

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, S1E7, orlo being terrified and panicking, set during that pox episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: When Orlo hears of the Pox outbreak, there is only one person on his mind.
Relationships: Count Orlo / Reader, Orlo (The Great TV 2020)/You
Kudos: 12





	Pox

Whenever Catherine burst into his office, Count Orlo struggled to withhold a sigh. It would stand to reason that, for the first time in memory, his personal life was _too_ busy. Between the woman he had met, and the whole damn coup, his work had begun to suffer.

He was desperate to catch up, working horrific overtime even as his mind spun with excitement, thinking about the Russia to come. The woman he could be with, once all this bloodshed and plotting was over. You could stand by his side, wake in his bed. Perhaps his workload could be lightened, and he could live peacefully, knowing he had years of comfort and love ahead with you.

As soon as this coup was over, you could be together without judgement or fear.

That felt miles away, and Orlo cursed as fresh ink smudged across his sleeve, ruining both the garment and the page. Fuck.

Catherine was mumbling about pox and _variolation_ and her usual plots which would get the pair of them into horrific amounts of trouble. It took all of his self-discipline and learnt politeness not to snap at her, and force his ears to hear her words.

She was quite worked up, hands on hips as she demanded his attention. He caught only her last words, but they were enough to make his stomach drop.

“The entire servants’ quarters will be burned if we fail to act, Orlo.”

“A pox outbreak?”

A faint ‘ _have you even been listening to me’_ was drowned out by the blood rushing in Orlo’s ears, his heart beating faster.

You had said nothing, but been mysteriously absent for the last day. He hadn’t even caught a glimpse of you in the corridor, that usual daily pang of guilt washing over him as you walked with your head down, a serf unable to protest as your muscles ached and your soul was trampled by hours of hard work.

“How many are gone already?” He snapped, suddenly fixing the young Empress with a glare which made her shrink back.

“Serfs? I have no idea. But it is horrific, and my boy Vlad is to be burned with the rest of them, he is trapped in a cupboard as we speak – ”

The Count paid no mind to the rest of Catherine’s words, her indignation rising as he rose to his feet, pulling on his jacket and walking away from her.

“Variolation is the future! It can save those who are not already infected, and will be a great advancement for our nation!”

“I am sure of that, Empress. But if you will excuse me…”

He didn’t even offer an excuse, already jogging towards the servants’ quarters, heels clicking on the marble floor as he searched for the nearest concealed access point to the underbelly of the palace. A disguised door, known only to those unfortunate enough to pass between the two worlds of nobility and serfdom, finally made itself known to him as a servant exited it.

Orlo did not hesitate to wrench the door open, hearing the clack of Catherine’s shoes and the airy shouts of her voice. She must think him totally irrational, he was sure. Explanation could wait.

“For Christ’s sakes, Orlo! You will get sick!”

Catherine grabbed for him, but her attempts to follow him were quickly stumped by the rough stone staircase which led to the quarters beneath the palace. The outbreak was enough to stop her following him across the threshold, even as she hissed to him to _not be so ridiculous_.

She had no idea. None of them did, his friends, contemporaries, enemies. The had not told a soul that his heart resided below the finery and the cleanliness of the palace. These shined corridors and ornately decorated rooms held no allure for him if they were not attended by you.

Orlo felt thoroughly out of his depth under the retreating glares of the serfs beneath the palace, and had a sudden flare of concern for his own safety. He pushed the sensation down, striding in a guessed direction, eyes flying wildly from sleeping body to exhausted serf. There was the occasional body, or a barely-living person too sick to hold themselves upright. Stretcher-bearers stood aside to let him pass, and Orlo felt himself almost sick with relief that the covered corpse looked nothing like you.

He was giving up hope, preparing to search the horrific encampment outside of the palace for you, when Orlo stopped in his tracks.

The sight of your sleeping form, on a barren cot without a single sheet for comfort, made his heart sink. The slight rise and fall of your chest was barely comfort, as sheer panic overtook Orlo. He grabbed at your wrist, shaking you awake with his free had, determined you could never return to this place.

“You are coming with me.”

Confused expressions watched him, some faces morphing to anger or bemusement as Orlo pulled you from your bed. Was there not an ounce of privacy here? Their gawking was enough to make him irrationally furious at your peers, glaring at a woman washing sheets mere feet from your drowsy head.

“Orlo?”

At the sound of your voice his grip softened. His shortlived relief – that you were still seemingly fine – was quickly burst by the coughs and groans of a sick serf just a few rooms away.

“Please, come to my rooms. I need to get you out of here.”

You acquiesced groggily, bowing your head against the judgement of your peers, and in subjugation to Orlo. You hated for him to see you here, to realise just how different your lives were. Never once had he made you feel inferior, until now.

“Quickly,” he muttered.

He was rushing to leave the servants’ quarters, and you could not blame him, his finery standing out against the muddied floors and the soot-blackened wooden walls which did little to distinguish one person’s space from another’s. You would not spend time here either, if you had somewhere nicer to be.

“You could have sent for me,” you muttered, following him with as much subservience in your body language as if you were obeying any other member of nobility.

“It was not fast enough. There is a pox outbreak!”

“I am well aware,” you mumbled, hoping no one but him would hear your defiance.

Finally above the ground floor, in the bright corridor, he spun on his heel to look at you.

“I have been blind. My God, what kind of man am I?”

You glanced around nervously, hoping no one would see him speaking to a serf as he was now.

_With the intent of hearing your reply_.

“Of course, you knew. Oh love, you should have said. I would never have let you suffer down there…”

You caught yourself huffing at him in frustration, at his ignorance, at his ridiculous grasp on reality. You really hoped no one else of status heard that, as Orlo glanced at you with concern.

“It is always some level of hell and panic down there. This is merely another of Dante’s _circles_.”

“I missed you.”

The words spilled from his mouth like an expression of his very soul, unfiltered by his brain. Like a plea.

“As soon as I heard about the outbreak, I feared the worst, and it has been days since we have caught up…” Orlo rambled.

You cut him off.

“I am okay.”

You reached for his hands, and suddenly Orlo seemed to remember where you were. Some random corner of the palace, where a guard, a Lord or Lady, Emperor or Empress, could sweep around the corner at any moment. You dropped his hands to spare him the decision.

“My rooms…” he mumbled.

You nodded, and he set off.

Following him was second nature, and you did so gladly, halving the normal journey time by keeping stride with his frantic pace. Once inside his chambers you could breathe a small sigh of relief, but not as extreme as his relief, the slump of his shoulders and the roughness of his shaky exhale. With a small smile to you, he walked to his desk. He carefully recapped the inkpot he had left unattended on his papers, straightened the chair which was askew, left in a rush. His glasses were slipping down his nose, so he pulled them off, folding them to sit atop his stack of books.

You watched, amused, as he put everything back as it ought to be. Then he captured your hands and guided you to the chaise. He occupied the seat before you, pulling you onto his lap. The softness of his body beside your own was always a welcome relief, like a craving sated, and you wrapped your arms around him in a sideways approximation of a hug.

“I am so glad to be able to hold you,” he confessed. “I feared the worst. Pox is vicious.”

You nodded.

“There are others down there –”

A stern look cut you off, his glasses absent and unable to obstruct the emotion in his deep brown eyes.

“I am not in love with anyone else down there.”

You felt just the smallest pang of regret for your tone. He took no delight in their suffering. Not like others in this palace did.

“I will help Catherine with variolation, persuade Archie, do whatever it takes. But I cannot know you are down there, at risk.” Orlo sighed, dramatic and somehow sincere all at once. “In risking yourself you risk my heart. I could not bear the thought… that you might be out in that forest, burned like garbage…”

There was a choke in his voice. Just as you imagined tears might begin to grace his cheeks, his hands tight around your torso, the doors to his room banged open. The angle of your seat concealed you for a moment, but you pushed at his chest frantically to separate yourself from the Count, desperate to conceal your secret. Orlo held on tight, arms clamping you into a hug against him even as you wanted to yell at him to release you.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

Your heart sank at the Empress’ voice, sing-song as she called the Count’s name, her skirt preceding her slightly as the rounded the corner to find him.

“Oh!”

Something akin to childish glee presented itself on Catherine’s face, as she watched Orlo cradle you to him. Her awe was similar to someone beholding a great scientific miracle. Perhaps this was a better spectacle: hopeless Orlo entirely smitten with a woman who loved him back.

“I was about to demand an explanation for your rather impressive sprint to the servants’ quarters, but I believe I have found it.”

You let Orlo introduce you, shocked as Catherine greeted you like a friend. She did not touch you, but granted you a small nod of her head, confounding you to your very core.

“A friend of Orlo’s is a friend of mine. Although perhaps friend is not the right word.”

You missed the look Orlo exchanged with her, his head over your shoulder from where you sat upon his lap, but the raise of Catherine’s eyebrows suggested to you the glare he shot to the Empress.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she continued civilly. “The clothes might be infected. Allow me to fetch you something else to wear.”

As she swept from the room, calling for her servant, Orlo loosened his grip on you.

“That was the Empress!” You hissed, horrified at his indiscretion.

“It was.”

“She knows!”

His quiet confidence was frustrating, and only when he captured one of your hands between both of his, did you begin to calm. And suspect his motives for suddenly uprooting you, on a random afternoon.

“She does.”

“Orlo… what are you doing?”

“I can’t have you live down there. So far from me. Slaving away, serving others, at risk…”

You stayed silent, unable to choose careful enough words to reply, wringing more from him.

“My bed is big enough for two,” he smiled. “And it is far more comfortable than the one downstairs. If you can tolerate the company.”

With a nod, you captured his lips, feeling his body shifting to pull you closer as he groaned his gratitude into your mouth.

You pulled back, looking into his eyes, delighting in the smile on his face.

“I am so glad you said yes,” he mumbled, and you rolled your eyes, capturing his chin with your hand to kiss him again.

A polite cough broke you apart.

In his doorway stood Catherine, eyes sparkling with mischief, and long-suffering Marial.

“My old finery should suit you nicely, until Orlo coughs up to buy you something proper,” she declared.


End file.
